


a spoonful of

by ladyeggplant



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Sickfic, bed sharing but put it on a couch so there's less room, those sure are some intricate rituals you've constructed there boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:20:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22341463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyeggplant/pseuds/ladyeggplant
Summary: Tito's dying.
Relationships: Mathew Barzal/Anthony Beauvillier
Comments: 12
Kudos: 248





	a spoonful of

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warning for a pretty graphic depiction of someone sick with a common cold. If you're sensitive to descriptions of the physical sensations that come along with that, this fic might not be for you.
> 
> Other than that, this is very much a work of fiction.

Tito’s dying.

He hacks, rolling onto his side, an avalanche of used tissues spilling onto the carpet. It’s not an exaggeration, it’s not hyperbole—he’s dying, inching closer and closer to his grave with every wheeze and sneeze and glob of phlegm. He’s not asking for a lot here, just like, to maybe be able to breathe through both nostrils at the same time relatively soon-ish. To maybe feel just okay for like, three seconds, _please._ To not constantly want his mom like he’s some giant baby and not a grown-ass professional athlete. He presses the heels of his hands against his burning eyes, throat tight as he swallows thickly because fuck, he really, _really_ wants his mom.

He breathes in, out, deep even though it hurts and inevitably sends him into another fit of harsh, lung tearing coughs. He whimpers, rolls, brain pounding against the inside of his skull so hard it sounds like someone’s knocking on his door.

Knocking that’s getting louder. And louder.

“Beau, it’s me,” a voice cuts through the pounding, through the haze of fever and cough medicine, through the silence of his dark apartment. “Let me in.”

Tito sits up so fast his head swims, eyes flickering uselessly from the bags of days old takeout to the flurry of crumpled tissues everywhere. He can’t smell, but he’s pretty sure his entire apartment must be pretty fucking ripe considering he hasn’t showered, taken out the garbage, or cleaned out the sink all weekend. He grabs uselessly at his greasy, awful hair, groaning as the knocking picks up again, louder and more persistent, and he heaves his aching body up off the couch with his comforter still wrapped around his shoulders.

It’s a slow waddle to the door, but once he gets there, Mat’s on the other side, cool air rolling off of him in his trim black coat, hair artfully windswept. Tito’s hyper aware that his sweats are full of holes and his t-shirt has a huge barbecue sauce stain dribbled down the front, knows he’s broken out over his forehead and his facial hair is in that awkward in-between of stubble and beard. Knows he looks about as good as he feels, which is to say—not at all.

“Jesus,” Mat says, taking him in. “You look like shit.”

Tito squints, and promptly moves to slam the door shut.

Mat jerks forward, just catching the edge. “C’mon, man, I brought soup.”

Tito sniffles, eyes round and wet as he peaks his head around. “...what kind of soup?”

“Chicken noodle.” Mat squeezes through the sliver of open door with two huge reusable shopping bags in his hands. “Leeber said you sounded bad on the phone, so he asked me to come make sure you weren’t, y'know, dead. Then he ordered all this soup from the deli—the good one, not the one that always smells like piss outside.”

Tito frowns, watching Mat kick off his shoes and shimmy out of his jacket. “I thought that was the good one.”

Tito wants to believe Anders only had the purest of intentions here, but he’s pretty sure if that were true, Anders would’ve asked Ebs or Brass or Nelly or literally anyone _but_ Mat to check in on him. He pulls his comforter around himself tighter and shuffles out of the way, watching as Mat brings his bags into the kitchen, lifting them up onto the counter. 

"Also, some lady just let me into the building—I mean, know I'm super trustworthy looking or whatever. But I could be like, an ax murderer or something," Mat rambles, hitting the lights, and Tito flinches, eyes jammed shut. He wants to be annoyed—at Anders for calling Mat, at Mat busting into his apartment looking alive and healthy and stupidly, impossibly good looking for someone in sweats and a hoodie, at his own stupid fucking immune system. All of it fizzles, though. He just doesn’t have the energy.

Tito slumps onto a stool, sagging against the granite as Mat starts rummaging through the cabinets. “Pots are on the bottom.”

“I’m shocked you even have pots and pans,” Mat snorts, pulling out the big stew pot from underneath the sink.

“Fuck off,” Tito says, though it comes out sounding more like _fuggoff._ “I cook way more than you do.”

Not saying much, considering Mat lives on Door Dash and meals he can con out of other people, but still. 

“Yo,” Mat says, looking at him in the full light of the kitchen. “Why don’t you take a shower? Or a bath, maybe.”

Tito sniffs, bringing the blankets in tighter. “Don’t wanna.”

Mat sighs, long-suffering and put upon, like he’s just so fucking agreeable all of the time. "Man, you’ll feel way better.”

“I don’t wanna feel better,” Tito groans, bringing the comforter up over his head. “I just want to like, dissolve into my couch.”

“Oh my god.” Mat rolls his eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

_“I’m_ dramatic?” Tito whips up, voice crackling. “_Me?_ Barz, you legit screamed at some guy on Old Country the other day that if he didn’t let you merge, you’d fucking slam him and his ugly ass Jeep into the Cheesecake Factory.”

Mat purses his lips. “I don’t recall.”

“You—” Tito snatches a bag off the counter, balls it up, and throws it at Mat. “Fuck you, you _don’t recall.”_

Mat brings an arm up, cackling, and Tito starts laughing with him when his lungs give out, burning and forcing him to turn his head away and hack into the crook of his elbow. When he blinks the tears out of his eyes and sits up again, breathing slow but deep, Mat’s wincing at him. “Dude, you sound worse than you look—which is _really_ saying something.” 

“I know,” Tito rasps, grabbing for a cup of tea that’s gone cold. “You really shouldn’t be here.”

Mat waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t get sick.”

Tito glares over the rim of his mug. “You’re such a liar—I’ve _seen_ you sick.”

“Dude, for the last time, I’m allergic to feathers. That’s why I can’t have down pillows in hotel rooms.”

“Fuck off, no one’s allergic to feathers, you-y—” Tito’s cut off by another onslaught of coughing, so intense he has to catch himself against the edge of the counter, chest on fucking fire.

There’s a large, warm hand rubbing up and down his back, blankets pooled at his feet. Mat says, “Seriously, Beau, man—take a shower. By the time you come out the soup’ll be ready and you’ll feel way, way better.”

Tito should say that it’s okay, that he’s fine, he can reheat soup all by himself, and that Mat should really leave before he gets infected with what is probably some alien strain of the common cold that’s completely resistant to Tylenol. But he’s so cold, and so achy, and Mat’s already guiding him down the hall towards the bathroom with a hand at Tito’s lower back.

—

Mat’s got the sleeves of his hoodie rolled up as he grabs a towel out of the hall closet. Tito’s pretty sure he was with Mat when he bought that hoodie—he’d spent nearly twenty minutes waiting for Mat to decide between two different shades of nearly identical gray. Tito’s also pretty sure that’s the same hoodie he accidentally grabbed out of their hotel room in Winnipeg, not giving it much thought until they were in the movie theater and he kept smelling the collar and sleeves without realizing it. Set against the heavy smell of buttery popcorn and hotdogs, it was impossible to ignore, so intensely familiar it nearly drove him crazy until he noticed Mat staring at him across the table at dinner later that night.

It wasn’t like guys didn’t accidentally swap clothes all the time, living on top of each other like they did. Especially when everyone tended to shop together at the same places and buy the same things, especially when it was something as innocuous as a plain gray hoodie. If the situation were reversed, Tito would’ve given Mat shit and they would’ve laughed about it. But Mat just kept staring, not saying a word—Tito thought he was mad or something, but the only thing Mat would say about it when they got back to the room was, _No, it—it’s just. It’s gotta be pretty rank, right?_ And that was the end of it, just a weird moment that meant nothing but had burrowed down inside of Tito, weighted heavy in his chest like something.

Mat pulls at the shower handle, hiss of water hitting the tub the only sound to fill the room. Tito feels dumb just watching him, like a little kid, but he’s too busy shivering through his too-thin clothes, comforter long abandoned and the tiles icy under his feet. Mat stands up straight, hair in his face as he says, “Try not to slip and die, okay?”

“Need one of those old people showers.” Tito rubs at his arms. “Like, the ones where the tubs have doors and there’s a seat inside.”

“Maybe Life Alert, while you’re at it. Ebs can let you borrow his.”

Tito tries to manage a weak smile, but it slips right off as his lungs give a hard pull inside his chest, trying to force him into another fit, eyes watering. He’s so cold, so miserable—it’s like each one of his nerves is flayed open, raw, every breath of air like needles, every drowsy blink like a hit, every breath painful. Nothing feels good or okay, and he has serious doubts that anything ever will again. 

“Seriously, if I hear you fall I’m gonna break the door down,” Mat warns him, voice light, but right under the surface is an edge that let’s Tito know he’s not kidding. Heat is starting to bloom across the cool tiles, humid and heady, Mat close. He pushes his hair back, warm light catching on the angles of his cheekbones, his jaw. Tito swallows, raw throat contracting painfully as he does.

“I’m fine,” Tito croaks, yanking his shirt off. “Get out so I can fucking shower in peace.”

Mat pauses, eyes dipping down, apprehension still clear in his face. Tito’s chest wheezes, laboring for deep breaths of hot air, mirrors fogging. He wants to chuck his pajama bottoms off but he is very much not wearing any underwear, and while it’s not like Mat hasn’t seen him naked like _a billion times_, that was...perfunctory nudity, in a sea of other very rank, very naked dudes. Not alone in Tito’s bathroom, steam curling up between them, Mat just...staring at him, that same way he did when Tito was wearing his hoodie. When Tito’s dying and can’t do anything about it. 

“Seriously, go." He swats at Mat, who holds up his hands in mock surrender, turning and closing the door behind him.

Tito rubs at his crusty eyes. How is this is life. 

He strips gracelessly, kicking his clothes into a corner and stepping into the shower. The second the hot water hits him he almost whimpers, pure heat sliding over him and rinsing off a weekend's worth of sweaty sickness. He hasn’t showered in nearly three days because the thought of peeling himself out of the warm cocoon of his couch had been insurmountable, his thoughts unable to reach anything past the coffee table. Now he’s not sure if he can ever come out. He doesn’t even wash himself, or have a good imaginary argument with someone—just stands there under the hot spray, letting it run over him, letting the heat sink into his skin. The steam pries open his chest, coughs lighter, easier, and his nose runs enough that suddenly he can actually breath out of one entire nostril. He almost cries.

There’s some half-assed attempt with soap and shampoo, but mostly he just stands there, time slipping away until there’s a knock on the bathroom door. “Yo, you’re still alive, right?”

Tito exhales, loud and long before reaching for the shower handle. “Yeah. Gimme a sec.”

Cold air immediately hits him once the water stops, even in the oversteamed bathroom. He can’t imagine what it’s like in the apartment, toweling off and wrapping himself in the robe he impulse bought from Bed Bath and Beyond last week after Clutter’d gripped him by the shoulders and said, _The coupons. Never. Expire._

He wobbles across the hall into his dark bedroom, groping for the light switch, teeth chattering so hard they set his whole skull to vibrate. His room is kind of a pit, which is why he moved his decaying carcass out into the living room to expire, stripped bed playing host to a pile of nasty sheets and flattened pillows, floor covered in unwashed jeans and shirts, mismatched socks and way too many crumpled Taco Bell bags. But the giant basket of laundry is clean, if wrinkled—he manages to pull out a thermal, fresh boxers and sweats, mismatched socks, shivering all the while. His bones creak with every slow step he takes back out into the living room.

He blinks against the light—he’s not sure how long he spent in the shower, but all his tissues and trash are gone, the sink’s empty, the hum of the dishwasher going steady in the background as Mat wipes down the counters with a Lysol wipe, so potently lemon Tito can taste it. His apartment, for the first time in days, feels open and clean.

“Barz...” the weight of the name carries _you didn’t have to_ and _thank you_ and _you asshole_ all at once.

“I thought you like, went down the drain or something,” Mat laughs, working in firm circles. “Soup’s ready, go sit on the couch and I’ll bring you some.”

Tito looks around, pulling his arms back through the sleeves of his shirt. “Where’s my blanket?”

“Bro, that thing had to be washed, it was like...Chernobyl levels of hazardous.”

“Your face is Chernobyl,” Tito grumbles, shoulders hunched.

“Look,” Mat says, and ducks out of view behind the breakfast bar. “I got this.”

He pulls out what can only be described as a giant fuzzy, orange monstrosity with a big Islanders logo smack dab in the center.

Tito wheezes, “Did you fucking skin Gritty?”

“Dude,” Mat brings an affronted hand to his chest. “Sacrilege. It’s a sherpa hoodie. I got it from the gift shop—look, it’s reversible.”

He turns the hoodie inside out, the white fleece inside suddenly facing outwards with a smaller logo on the chest. Tito reaches out, the material soft to the touch, and he can already see himself cocooned in it on the couch. He wants to be at least a little dignified about this, though. “It looks ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously cozy,” Mat corrects him, holding it up by the shoulders and making it do a little dance. “C’mon, it’s practically begging.” He switches to a high pitched cartoon voice, _“Beau, please, I need you inside me—”_

Tito snatches it, thankful his entire face is still splotchy and red from the shower, but Mat’s too busy laughing to notice anyway.

—

Tito can only shiver on the couch for so long before caving, yanking the hoodie over his head and relishing in the feel of fuzzy fleece insulating him. Even at his height and width it hangs off of him, and he twists, trying to look over his shoulder. “It doesn’t say Barzal on the back, does it?”

When he turns, Mat’s paused, steaming bowl of soup in each hand, mouth open mid-word and eyes unblinking. Tito's about to ask what's wrong when Mat apparently shakes out of it, "Psssh, you wish."

He sets the bowls on the coffee table in front of the couch, and Tito’s stomach rips a growl so loud he’s pretty sure can be heard in like, Bolivia or something. Jersey, at the very least. He hasn’t really eaten anything all day except instant oatmeal at 5am because he woke up coughing his lungs out and couldn’t go back to sleep. The first spoonful burns, but it’s so, _so_ good, groaning around a mouthful of chicken and noodles as Mat sits down on the other end, reaching for the remote and turning the volume up as a commercial ends.

Tito's so absorbed in eating he barely registers the snort next to him. “Is this what you’ve been watching all day?”

“Uh.” Tito looks up, images flashing across the screen fast and bright, two women with _I’d like to speak to the manager_ haircuts rolling around on the floor, fighting. One of them is trying to reach for an ax. He blinks. “Shit, I don’t know, I don’t even remember turning the TV on.”

“It’s Lifetime,” Mat says, like that’s supposed to be significant to Tito.

“Okay?” Tito shoves another spoonful into his mouth, talking around it. “I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s,” Mat flaps a hand at the TV, “Lifetime! Like, serial killer babysitters, teenage pregnancy pacts, vengeful horse trainers who get plastic surgery to murder their ex-husbands—you know, _Lifetime.”_

Tito shrugs.

“Okay,” Mat says, nodding and reaching for his own bowl. “Okay, well, you’re about to find out.”

—

“He’s not sixteen.”

“Dude, he’s supposed to be sixteen.”

“How? How is that meant to be a sixteen-year-old?” Tito asks, flailing at the screen. “That’s not a high schooler, that’s a seven-thousand year old warlock.”

Mat snorts against the rim of his mug, sipping from the tea he’d made for the both of them. Tito’s not sure exactly what time it is; he’s had the blinds drawn all day, and it gets miserably dark at like half past four anyway, but Mat’s been here for hours, watching these awful fucking movies, camped out on Tito’s couch. And Tito’s still dying and hacking, but he feels clear, awake as they configure and reconfigure themselves against the cushions.

Tito brings his knees up under the hoodie, up to his chest.

“You still cold?” Mat asks, putting his cup down.

“Just my legs,” Tito says, pulling his arms out of the sleeves to wrap around himself. “Also, that sixteen-year-old boy’s five o’clock shadow and crowsfeet are giving me the willies.”

“Hey man, give the guy a break—he’s addicted to porn and all that nighttime stalking really eats into his sleep schedule.” Mat swings his feet around and onto the floor, standing and shuffling off out of view. Tito tries to crane his neck and look over the back of the couch, but Mat’s gone down the hallway, the distant sound of metal clanging until he reemerges with Tito’s comforter in his arms. “Fresh out the dryer.”

He dumps it onto Tito and it’s...so fucking warm. Tito twists it around himself, shivers skittering out of him as he smushes himself deeper into the cushions, one hand snaking out to grab at his tea.

“Dude,” Mat says, “you’re hogging the whole couch.”

Tito wants to say something snotty like _well it’s my couch,_ but Mat doesn’t deserve that, so he just lifts his feet and lets Mat take the far left seat. There’s some squishing, some grunting, but Tito’s legs wind up in Mat’s lap, blankets over them both.

“So wait,” Tito asks, “he’s stalking his step-mom who used to be his teacher?”

Mat hums. “And he’s gonna blackmail her with the softcore porn she did in college.”

“Jesus.” Tito nudges Mat’s shoulder with his sock-clad foot. “Turn it up.”

—

“This is like the third Amish one we’ve seen.”

“Yeah, but it’s the first Amish one starring Jesse McCartney.”

“I don’t know who that is, Barz.”

“Yo, yes you do—he sings that song. The beautiful soul song.”

“Never heard it.”

“You’re such a liar, you definitely have.”

“I definitely haven’t.”

“Yes you have, the one that’s like—_I don’t want another pretty face, I don't want—_” Mat freezes mid-lyric, eyes turning sharp as Tito fails to keep a traitorous grin from stretching ear to ear. Mat whips a pillow at his face. "Lying-ass _motherfucker."_

“Stop,” Tito whines, letting out a pitiful little cough. “I’m siiiiiick.”

Mat hits him one more time for good measure, and Tito’s laughs dissolve into hacking that makes him reach for his water bottle. There’s a pause, then, “Want another icepop or something?”

Tito shivers. “No. ‘m fine, really.”

“I could go get you something?” Mat jerks his thumb towards the door. “There’s a Stop n Shop down the road—what do you want? Hot chocolate? Or like, I could make you—”

“Barz,” Tito cuts him off. “Seriously. I just wanna like, chill.”

He wants to burrow into Mat’s hoodie, live inside of it against Mat’s skin, taste sweat and salt and heat. He settles for digging his cold feet under Mat’s thigh and wrapping the comforter tighter around himself.

—

He dozes somewhere between the forbidden Amish romances and baby stealing nannies, sleep thin with half-conscious thoughts holding him near the surface before the tether snaps and he plunges into a deep, strange sleep. He’s in the Coliseum, but the roof is missing, and he knows he’s looking for Mat but he keeps getting sidetracked by all the people in the stands—Ricky, the counselor from his first hockey camp is barbecuing up in the 200s. His aunt is folding laundry behind the penalty box. Barry is giving a press conference at one of the exits, weighing in on the whole _is a hot dog a sandwich_ debate. There’s so much happening, and Tito can’t find his way out of the rink as the ice melts beneath him, fracturing like icebergs in an ocean, rocking him off his feet—

“Sorry,” Mat says, and fucking finally, he’s found him. “I gotta piss.”

Tito blinks, wincing against what he thinks for a second is freezing water as he plunges underneath the surface, but it’s just his apartment, light-less save for the glowing numbers of his cable box beneath the TV. A chill sweeps over him as Mat tugs the blankets away and disentangles their legs, and Tito groans, eyes jamming shut and drawing into himself, feeling Mat get up and lumber away. He lasts about three second before falling forward, curling into the last dregs of the body heat still trapped in the cushions. He sniffles, eyelids drooping as someone’s phone buzzes on the coffee table, the sound of the bathroom door swinging open and bare feet padding across the floor.

“Dude,” Mat asks from above, sharp and loud, “Seriously?”

Tito grunts. “Mm.”

“Where am I supposed to sit now?”

Tito grunts again, snuggling in deeper. There’s something nudging at his side—it might be Mat’s foot, kicking him. He lets out a weak cough and croaks, “I’m sick and I’m cold and I wanna lay down.”

There’s a heavy exhale above him, and then Mat’s pulling at Tito’s blankets, forceful enough that there’s no choice but to let go with a pathetic whine when the couch dips. Mat scoots in, further and further until Tito has no choice but to roll onto his side, face scrunched and teeth clenched so they won’t chatter. Mat squeezes underneath, pulling Tito fully on top of him before shaking out the blanket where it snagged between them. There’s grunting, and squirming, and elbows in places where elbows shouldn’t be, but Tito bends his left leg up over Mat’s lap, settling against the warm, solid chest underneath him. 

Mat does shit sometimes, in really obtuse ways. Whether it’s circling the offensive zone with the puck for his entire shift, looking for the perfect opening, or spending three hours shopping for black sweats and then putting all his options back on the rack, or his laundry list of superstitions. All with shrugging shoulders and awkward half-grins and rapid-fire words, trying too hard to be casual and cool when he’s never been either. Tito loves it, but even as well as he knows Mat, sometimes it all blurs and bleeds into each other, shaped and reshaped into something so distorted Tito can’t even guess where it begins or where it ends. If it ends. This moment, a constellation of careful breathing and tucked elbows and knees, feels like one of those things Tito just can’t parse through. Mat doesn’t have to be on the couch when there’s an armchair and a guest room, doesn’t even have to be in the apartment, could just go home. Instead, Mat’s got an ankle hooked over Tito’s, one hand flipping through TV channels with the remote as the other rubs lazily up and down Tito’s back, dipping down to the waistband of his sweats, then up, up to the nape of his neck.

Tito huffs out a sigh—of all the times they’ve stayed up way too late in cramped hotel rooms, passing out on the same bed watching shitty _Full House_ reruns when Tito didn’t feel like death warmed over, didn't look like shit, and _now_ Mat chooses to...god, he doesn’t even know what Mat’s doing. And he doesn’t have the energy to figure it out, to weave through the Gordian knot of Mat Barzal’s intentions. All he can do is tumble headlong into a deep, deep sleep, finally warm.

—

He wakes up around 5am, encased in lava.

At least, that’s what it feels like, jumping up and throws the covers off, sweating through his clothes as Mat yelps and starts shouting, “What’s wrong? Beau, hey, what’s—”

Tito’s already peeled the hoodie and his shirt off in one go, diving for his water bottle on the coffee table and downing what’s left of it as he stumbles towards the window and yanks it open.

“Are you crazy?” Mat scrambles up from the couch, hair sticking out in all directions. “Yo, close the fucking—”

A cool breeze rushes to meet him, kissing his bare skin in a rush of goosebumps. He whimpers, leaning his forehead against the glass and breathing in deep. He wheezes, “It’s too hot…”

Mat rubs hands up and down his face, voice still rough with sleep. “Your fever’s breaking, probably.”

“Yeah…” he murmurs, swaying forward as another lash of wind pushes through the window screen. “God, that feels good.”

“Alright.” Mat’s hand is on Tito’s bare waist, trying to guide him away. “Let’s maybe not get hypothermia right now.”

Mat’s fingers are pressing against the dip of Tito’s hip, dry, calloused hand curved over soft skin, and Tito shivers, synapses firing off in all directions, a familiar stir low in his belly so sudden and potent it’s dizzying. He hasn’t been able to even want to touch himself for days, and now it feels like there’s a humming underneath his skin, ignited and refusing to fizzle out so long as Mat’s touching him. He pushes himself back from the window, closing it and shrugging Mat off as he heads back towards the kitchen.

Mat hits the lights over the breakfast bar, stark against the darkness in the rest of the apartment. It reminds Tito of obscenely early morning in the dead of Quebec winter, fumbling through the darkness with his dad out warming up the car and his mom brewing criminally strong coffee. Everything tinged that too-early blue, so slow it felt like he was moving through water.

He fills another glass of water and chugs—Tito can feel it slipping down the column of his throat, his bare chest, but he’s too thirsty to stop.

“Uh,” he hears Mat say, “You sure you’re like...okay?”

Tito hums, finally breaking from his glass with a vicious exhale, taking a moment before he heaves, “This is...the best I’ve felt since Friday.”

“Oh,” Mat says, “good.”

Tito wipes at his chest with a dishtowel. “My throat's still sore, and I’m still congested but shit, I feel so much better. I might even go—”

“Fuck you, you might even go to practice,” Mat scoffs. “If I even see you in the parking lot I’m gonna choke slam you into Hempstead Turnpike.”

“Honestly,” Tito sags against the cool counter top. “If I had to pick a way for it all to end…”

He watches Mat come around to the sink, reaching for the kettle on the stove and turning on the faucet. Watches his back move under the thin material of his t-shirt in the muted light of the kitchen, the click and hiss of the gas stove, and Tito can imagine a million mornings just like this one. Up before the sun with a bleary eyed, barefoot Mat, hair sticking out everywhere, sleepily asking Tito what he wants, and there’s nothing but shitty TV, and hockey, and the two of them. He can imagine a million mornings where he’s allowed to walk up behind Mat and tuck his arms around Mat’s waist, press his mouth to the nape of Mat’s neck over and over. And they’ve got to be at practice in a couple of hours, and they’ve got a lot of shit to do, a lot of hard work to grind out of aching bones and bruised bodies, but for a moment the world is quiet. For a moment they can just be, swaying back and forth as they wait for the kettle to whistle.

Mat glances over his shoulder, holding up a frying pan left on the stove. “Want breakfast?”

—

Mat can't go to practice in yesterday's clothes, something they both realize without either of them having to say a word, so Tito lends him a plain black zip-up and sweats, nondescript enough that no one'll be able to tell. Except Mat. Except Tito, feeling unhinged as he watches Mat walk down the hall towards the elevators in his clothes, second wave of heat flushing through him, and it doesn't leave even when he shuts the door presses his forehead against it.

He spends the rest of the day feeling restless, bored by his phone and his Xbox, the corners of his apartment drawing in on him. Everything feels like Mat's phantom touches; a fridge full of leftover soup. TV still stuck on that same channel. Tea lukewarm in matching mugs on the counter. A clean sink, washed sheets, garbage taken out. The only thing out of place is the gray hoodie wedged between the couch cushions. Mat must've taken it off at some point during the night, overheated by Tito and layers of fabric blanketing him. It only adds to the feeling that Tito might legitimately be going out of his mind.

“But you’re feeling better?” his mom asks over Skype that night, the pinch between her eyebrows clearly spelling out that if he says no, she’s getting in her car. 

“Yes, I swear,” he tells her, bringing his bowl into view. “Look Barz—Mat brought me soup. Chicken noodle. Not as good as yours, but.”

She softens at that, and tells him all about the burst pipe in the basement, and the weather, and all the things from home he’s missed since the last time they talked as she folds laundry in front of her laptop. He listens, sinking further into his couch and bringing the collar of Mat's hoodie up under his nose, breathing in deeply.

—

“Hey,” Tito says, grabbing Anders by the shoulder as they shuffle out towards the parking lot. Guys move around them, wrapped up in coats and scarves for the first truly chilly day of October, and Tito feels Marty give him a good smack on the ass as he passes. Tito makes swipes at him, grinning, before turning back to Anders, who’s waiting patiently with a cocked eyebrow. He clears his throat. “I never said thank you

Anders makes a face, doing up the zipper of his coat. “For what?”

“The soup,” Tito says. “And the blankets and the tea—everything you had Barzy bring over. I never said thank you.”

“I didn’t—” Confused eyes flicker up to look over Tito’s shoulder, a spark of recognition smoothing out his expression. “Oh.”

Tito turns, looking back to see Mat hunched over his gear bag, rooting around for something with his shoulders drawn up to his ears. Tito blinks, feeling the slow dawn of something rising to realization in his mind as Anders claps him on the back and goes, “Good luck with that.”

Tito’s slack jaw snaps shut.

Mat keeps pretending to look for for something as Tito walks up behind him. He nudges Mat’s shoe with the toe of his own. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Mat says, checking a side pocket. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah. Yeah, a lot better,” Tito picks a piece of lint off the front of his shirt, smooths out some imaginary wrinkles. “Uh. So, you left your hoodie at my place.”

There's a pause, Mat forgetting he's still pretending.

"I washed it," Tito clears his throat, still a little rough sounding. "So. You can come by whenever. Or I'll bring it to you. Um."

"Whatever's fine," Mat's voice is so faux-cool it actually makes Tito wince. "I have your stuff, too, so."

"Right," Tito'd almost forgotten. Had pushed the image of Mat in his clothes to the furthest edges of his mind.

“Hey, I gotta go,” Mat springs up onto his feet. “I’m uh. I’m late.”

Tito frowns. “For what?”

“This thing, I—” Mat heaves his bag up over his shoulder. He finally looks at Tito, his face red, damp hair curling against his forehead, mouth opening and closing without words coming out before finally managing, "See you."

He pushes forward towards the doors, and Tito knows the second he passes through them this moment is gone, and all the sureness he feels bubbling up in his chest will dissipate, courage going with it. Before he can stop himself, before he can think better of it, he calls after Mat, “I DVR’d _The Husband She Met Online."_

Mat falters at the double doors, hand pressing against the center.

“It doesn’t have Jesse McCartney in it, but,” Tito swallows. “It’s still probably pretty awful. So if you wanna come over and watch it, maybe..."

Mat turns, just enough with one corner of his mouth quirking. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Cool,” Tito says, probably too loudly, smiling. “Come over whenever.”

—

Whenever. He said whenever like an idiot, and now he’s stuck. Are they eating dinner together? Does he have enough time to go to the store? Because the only thing to eat in his apartment is soup and icepops, and no matter how many times he spritzes his couch with Febreze he thinks it still kind of smells like a body spent nearly four days decaying on it. _Whenever._ Ugh. He face plants right into the cushions, groaning. He knows that he could just text Mat and ask, but Tito already did the leg work—he was the one who told Mat to come over, who did the hard part. It's practically common sense that Mat should be the one make the next move. Tito groans louder.

He shoots up when his phone buzzes on the coffee table, scrambling for it only to see it’s just a text from Ebs. _barzys being weird_

_Barzy’s always weird,_ Tito types back.

_extra,_ is the only thing he gets for a few minutes, then, _factmed me 4 times about his pants_

Tito snorts. For someone who only wears neutrals with the occasional inoffensive dark blue or green, Mat’s particular in a way Tito’s never been able to decode, but always loves to watch spiral. A white and black windbreaker that’s loved and specially chosen in the morning might be electric chair worthy by mid-afternoon. A hoodie he wears every day for a week straight might suddenly be banished to the back of the closet for some imperceptible reason like the plastic fell off of the end of the drawstrings, or the cuffs felt too loose. If he’s facetiming Ebs—who has never once put an inch of thought into any outfit in his entire life—for advice, Mat must be caught in some kind of nuclear meltdown over like, where the shoulder seam of his t-shirt is falling. Tito loves it when he gets like that, and this is how it always starts—the smallest, most innocuous thing that dominoes into Mat’s complete unraveling. As much as he likes weird Mat, wound up in his own intricate system of self-imposed rules and ideas, he also loves those few moments where Mat just fucking loses it. Wild and unglued with everything he has, where he laughs himself to pieces because he can’t help it, where he forgets himself and just is.

So when Mat comes spilling through the door after Tito buzzes him in, flushed and talking a million miles a minute, it knocks out all the doubt that’d been blurring the edges of Tito’s thoughts.

“Some fucker almost killed me at the intersection near Post,” Mat huffs, clutching a brown paper bag in his fist. “Cut me off, and then when I honked at him, he flipped _me_ off, fucking _asshole.”_

Tito grins, his face heating, because fuck, he likes Mat when he gets like this. He just kind of likes Mat. “The audacity.”

“Right!” Mat flicks hair out of his eyes, then holds out the the paper bag. “I brought Carvel.”

Tito snatches the bag, tearing open the top. “Fuck, is that a chocolate shake?”

“With extra crunchies,” Mat tells him. 

Maybe he shouldn’t say it like this, maybe there’s a more tactful way to bring it up, but Tito has never really thought of himself as tactful in any sense of the word. So he just asks, “Did Leeber tell you to bring this, too?”

There’s a pause hanging between them just a beat too long.

“Uh. I didn’t—it, um,” Mat scrambles, face going deep red, pinned in place.

“I mean, I was off my face on Dayquil, so I probably wouldn’t have even remembered,” Tito tries out a small laugh, but when Mat doesn’t even look up, he chews at the inside of his cheek, bag crinkling in his hands. “I just...you could’ve said, y’know? It’s not a big deal, or anything.”

Mat snaps into motion and tears off his coat, wrestling out of the arms, looking anywhere but Tito. “I don’t know—Marty was giving me shit...I don’t know.”

Tito frowns “Shit about what?”

“Like,” Mat pushes out a huge breath, snatching the paper bag back and stomping off towards the kitchen. “Not in a bad way, just. Y’know. Giving me shit.”

He watches Mat push through the apartment, the tense line of his shoulders under his sweatshirt as he tosses his jacket over the armchair. “About what, Barz—some nouns, any nouns, maybe a verb or two.”

“Just normal stuff. I don’t know,” Mat deflects, dropping the bag on the counter and tearing open the top hard enough to rip the paper. “I knew you were sick ‘cause you told me, but when you didn’t show up for practice and Barry said you weren’t coming...I guess I kind of grilled him about it, in front of everyone. Surprised no one told you.”

They might’ve, but Tito read all of his messages in a fever haze, unable to concentrate, unwilling to try, mostly content to let his phone roll off the side of the couch and die. He can see it—Marty making some dumb comment, something like _shouldn’t you be nursing him back to health,_ something Tito would’ve lapped up, would’ve volleyed something back to, would’ve played along with. The hyper-awareness Mat has on the ice doesn’t just go away when he takes his skates off—he’s always aware of himself in every room, in every space. Sometimes it makes him clunky and awkward, too self-conscious until the facade cracks under the pressure of bright laughter that’s always bursting out of him. Other times, though, it’s quieter, turning over everything in his mind to the point of exhaustion. A simple comment that needles at him until he’s worked himself up into some convoluted roundabout that doesn’t make sense to anyone who hasn’t spent a good chunk of time on the Mat Barzal Nightmare Carousel. Tito considers himself lucky to have a designated unicorn, glittery and grotesque, and he still can't decipher Mat's bullshit half the time.

“So I just,” Mat lets out a big breath, head tilted back. “I didn’t want to freak you out. Like, make it really obvious. Thought if I told you Anders asked me to do it, it wouldn’t be as weird, or whatever.”

“As weird as what?” Tito cocks at eyebrow. “Cuddling on the couch, watching Lifetime channel movies?”

Mat rubs at the back of his neck, and Tito can see how red that is, too.

“Cause I don’t think it’s weird,” Tito says, suddenly, softly, and Mat finally, finally turns to look at him.

“You don’t?” Mat’s words match his face—careful, shocked, disbelieving, open, hopeful, all at once. Because Mat’s never just one thing.

“I mean I still think you’re a giant fucking weirdo, and super ridiculous but…I dunno. I like those things things about you.” Tito shrugs, rocking back on his heels. “I kind of just like you.”

Mat’s expression shifts, intent, sharp, and before Tito can take the words back, or stammer out some kind of apology, some kind of anything, Mat’s closing the distance between them. There’s a hand at his jaw, thumb brushing over Tito’s cheek, Mat crowding him against the counter.

“You,” he swallows, heart slamming against his chest, hands curling into the front of Mat’s sweatshirt. “You shouldn’t—I’m probably still contag—”

“Don’t care,” Mat says, and Tito falls forward to meet him halfway. There’s an inhale, sharp and deep as lips touch, so gentle it’s nearly painful, until it breaks open and they’re kissing. Kissing against the counter, hot, heavy, Mat’s massive thigh pressing right between his, his hands in Mat’s hair. 

In his softer, drunker moments, Tito would let himself remember. Remember lowlit clubs with the bass thrumming through his entire body in time with his heart, refusing to fade even when he slid between starched hotel sheets. Remember Mat’s hand at his lower back as he inched by to grab hold of Ebs. Remember breath so hot and so close when he leaned in to say something right against Tito’s ear. Remember Ubers back, jammed into the back of a cramped SUV with as many guys as they can fit, sitting in Mat’s lap, Mat holding onto his hips over every bump, laughing warm against Tito’s neck. And remembering would, slowly and surely, morph into imagining. Imagining touches that lingered, looks that lasted, gasps caught between teeth.

When Tito would let himself imagine this, he was always the one who took charge. Always sweet, simple, chaste, because he’d never want to freak Mat out, scare him off. He forgets, sometimes, that as awkward and weird as Mat can be, he’s still so fucking intense. Tito feels every bit of that in the way he kisses, his hand at Tito’s throat, his lips parted, demanding every piece of Tito. He whimpers into Mat’s mouth, wraps his arms over Mat’s shoulders, and melts.

—

“I’m dying.”

After everything, it took about two days for Mat to admit he was, in fact, very fucking sick. That’s what happens, Tito supposes, when you aggressively cuddle someone when they’ve got a fever, and then make out with them when they’re still contagious. He’s so tempted to mock Mat _bro-I-don’t-get-sick_ Barzal for like, all of eternity, but Tito thinks that can wait until Mat’s able to breathe through at least one nostril.

Tito reaches down to card a hand through Mat’s hair. “You’re not dying.”

“You’re right,” Mat hacks. “I’m not dying—I’m already dead. Six feet under. Maker met. Bucket kicked.”

Mat’s flung himself dramatically over the sofa, tissues clutched to his chest as he coughs. Tito knows he wasn’t exactly the perfect patient when he was sick, but Mat’s taken it to a whole new level of theatrics. The combo of cough medicine and a peaking fever has chipped away at every last tryhard fiber in his body, and now he’s just a one-man show of melodrama wrapped in blue and orange pajamas.

“Don’t look at me,” he wheezes, pulling the throw blanket up over his face. “I’m fucking atrocious.”

“Yeah.” Tito winces. “You kind of look like dogshit.”

Mat yanks the blanket down, glaring, but it’s hard to look threatening when your nose has been rubbed raw and your eyes are so glassy it looks like they’re welling up with tears.

Tito pushes himself up off the arm of the couch. “You want tea? I’ll make you tea.”

“I want _oblivion.”_

“We’ve got like, Celestial Seasonings, and that’s about it.” 

Mat sniffles. “...Berry Zinger, please.”

Tito smiles, padding over into the kitchen, and while he waits for the kettle to whistle, Mat shuffles in behind him. Blankets and all, he wraps himself around Tito with the TV low in the background, the sun starting to dip in the sky, and they sway back and forth, back and forth.

_end._

**Author's Note:**

> knockin' on all available wooden surfaces after posting this—no sick!!! no sick for anyone!!!!!!!!
> 
> thanks for reading :)


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